


What He Can Have

by downtheroadandupthehill



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: High School AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 12:06:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downtheroadandupthehill/pseuds/downtheroadandupthehill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Attractively worn paint leads to kissing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What He Can Have

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mercuryhatter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercuryhatter/gifts).



> Prompted by thedearest-themostvaliant: paint and making out.

“The mural seems to be coming along,” Enjolras comments.

Grantaire turns, sees him, and a grin lights up his face. “Yeah?” There’s a streak of green paint along his cheek, and some dribbles of blue in his hair. He’d abandoned his shirt, shoes, and socks in the corner hours ago, and Enjolras can’t stand how good he looks in nothing but paint-smeared blue jeans and, well, more paint. When the student council had asked Grantaire to do the mural in the main hallway of their high school, Enjolras’s mind hadn’t even traveled here, he swears to himself.

“Yeah.” He tries keep his eyes firmly planted on Grantaire’s smiling face, as much as they might like to linger elsewhere. Like on the strips of yellow that have made their way onto his arms, or the drops of purple on his chest. There’s a smear of black right underneath his belly button that’s particularly striking. Enjolras swallows, coughs. “What’s it supposed to be?”

Grantaire shrugs, waves his paintbrush. Flecks of turquoise spatter across his forehead. “No idea. I’m just playing with colors and shapes, for now. But I’m definitely, one hundred percent, refusing to paint the football team.”

“That’s acceptable.” Against his better judgement, Enjolras takes a step toward him. He squints at the wall, acts as if he’s moved closer for that alone, and not because he’s drawn to the boy in front of him. Grantaire shows up to student council meetings on occasion, chimes in with snark and smirks until Enjolras threatens to kick him out. He’d be lying, though, if he said he’d never once felt the least bit of attraction to him, but it’s never been like this. Grantaire--barefoot and shirtless and covered in paint--it suits him altogether too well. Enjolras licks his bottom lip--he can’t help himself--as he glances at Grantaire.

Grantaire’s gaze darts between Enjolras and the wall, obviously waiting for some sort of judgement to be pronounced on his work thus far, and completely oblivious to what’s going on in Enjolras’s head. His eyes widen just the slightest, though, when Enjolras looks at him and wet his lip, as if Enjolras is some sort of sleek, carnivorous feline and Grantaire is very much something he would like to devour.

They’re both staring now. “Do you--?” Grantaire begins, though the rest of whatever he was going to say is lost when Enjolras pushes him by the shoulders, up against the wall.

Enjolras finds reason enough to be grateful for all the stupid shit that Grantaire has done in their past three and a half years of high school, such as when Grantaire and Courfeyrac got high together behind the bleachers during a football game in ninth grade, and were caught by the principal in mid-blowjob. They were suspended for a week and most of their friends were furious--Enjolras included--but now he likes knowing that Grantaire is at least a little gay, when he crushes his lips beneath his own.

But even if the bleacher blowjob incident hadn’t happened, Enjolras would know Grantaire’s enjoying himself by the low hum of appreciation coming from the back of his throat, and how he’s kissing him back--tongue and teeth and all--and in the possessive way that his paint-stained fingers curl around his arms to drag him closer until they’re pressed together, pressed against the wall. Grantaire’s bare skin sliding against the thin cotton of Enjolras’s t-shirt, a bit of fabric that Enjolras has never despised more than he does right now. He would consider the splotches of paint that it must be covered in, by now, if he could consider anything but Grantaire growing hard against him.

School has been out for hours, and even the faculty ought to have drifted out by now, or at least they can hope. Their lips finally separate, and Enjolras kisses Grantaire behind his ear, grazes his teeth on it.

“You have no idea how much I’ve thought about you,” Grantaire says, his voice low with want. He grinds against Enjolras, for emphasis.

But that’s not what Enjolras wants to hear. He doesn’t want romantic platitudes, not from Grantaire, however much Grantaire might want to hear them himself--he doesn’t miss how Grantaire looks at him when he thinks no one else is watching. Enjolras wants to listen to gasps and moans, and he likes Grantaire best when his eyes are half-lidded in desire and not wide-eyed in adoration.

He gets exactly what he wants, as he fumbles with the zipper on Grantaire’s jeans and bites into his collarbone, and Grantaire’s hips buck again.

There are bits of cold dampness on Enjolras’s face and hands and arms (and soon to be everywhere else) where the paint will be left to dry.


End file.
